Leseprobe "Joyce, James: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" |

Chapter 1

Once upon a time and
a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road
and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens
little boy named baby tuckoo...

His father told him
that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy
face.

He was baby tuckoo.
The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon
platt.

O, the wild rose
blossoms

On the little green
place.

He sang that song.
That was his song.

O, the green wothe
botheth.

When you wet the bed
first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet.
That had the queer smell.

His mother had a
nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor's
hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:

Tralala lala,

Tralala tralaladdy,

Tralala lala,

Tralala lala.

Uncle Charles and
Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle
Charles was older than Dante.

Dante had two
brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for
Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for
Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of
tissue paper.

The Vances lived in
number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were
Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to
marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:

—O, Stephen
will apologize.

Dante said:

—O, if not,
the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.—

Pull out his eyes,

Apologize,

Apologize,

Pull out his eyes.

Apologize,

Pull out his eyes,

Pull out his eyes,

Apologize.

The wide playgrounds
were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged
them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and
after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb
flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on the fringe
of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the
rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and
weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and
watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the
third line all the fellows said.

Rody Kickham was a
decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves
in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big
hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day
he had asked:

—What is your
name?

Stephen had
answered: Stephen Dedalus.

Then Nasty Roche had
said:

—What kind of
a name is that?

And when Stephen had
not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:

—What is your
father?

Stephen had
answered:

—A gentleman.

Then Nasty Roche had
asked:

—Is he a
magistrate?

He crept about from
point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and
then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the
side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his
pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow
said to Cantwell:

—I'd give you
such a belt in a second.

Cantwell had
answered:

—Go and fight
your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give
you a toe in the rump for yourself.

That was not a nice
expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys
in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle
when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose
to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not
to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was
not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two
five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if
he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never
to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had
shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in
the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on
it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:

—Goodbye,
Stephen, goodbye!

—Goodbye,
Stephen, goodbye!

He was caught in the
whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy
boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were
struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and
stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all
the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way
and then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going
home for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would change
the number pasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to
seventy-six.

It would be better
to be in the study hall than out there in the cold. The sky was pale
and cold but there were lights in the castle. He wondered from which
window Hamilton Rowan had thrown his hat on the ha-ha and had there
been flowerbeds at that time under the windows. One day when he had
been called to the castle the butler had shown him the marks of the
soldiers' slugs in the wood of the door and had given him a piece of
shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and warm to see the
lights in the castle. It was like something in a book. Perhaps
Leicester Abbey was like that. And there were nice sentences in
Doctor Cornwell's Spelling Book. They were like poetry but they were
only sentences to learn the spelling from.

Wolsey died in
Leicester Abbey

Where the abbots
buried him.

Canker is a disease
of plants,

Cancer one of
animals.

It would be nice to
lie on the hearthrug before the fire, leaning his head upon his
hands, and think on those sentences. He shivered as if he had cold
slimy water next his skin. That was mean of Wells to shoulder him
into the square ditch because he would not swop his little snuff box
for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. How
cold and slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big rat
jump into the scum. Mother was sitting at the fire with Dante waiting
for Brigid to bring in the tea. She had her feet on the fender and
her jewelly slippers were so hot and they had such a lovely warm
smell! Dante knew a lot of things. She had taught him where the
Mozambique Channel was and what was the longest river in America and
what was the name of the highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall
knew more than Dante because he was a priest but both his father and
uncle Charles said that Dante was a clever woman and a well-read
woman. And when Dante made that noise after dinner and then put up
her hand to her mouth: that was heartburn.

A voice cried far
out on the playground:

—All in!

Then other voices
cried from the lower and third lines:

—All in! All
in!

The players closed
around, flushed and muddy, and he went among them, glad to go in.
Rody Kickham held the ball by its greasy lace. A fellow asked him to
give it one last: but he walked on without even answering the fellow.
Simon Moonan told him not to because the prefect was looking. The
fellow turned to Simon Moonan and said:

—We all know
why you speak. You are McGlade's suck.

Suck was a queer
word. The fellow called Simon Moonan that name because Simon Moonan
used to tie the prefect's false sleeves behind his back and the
prefect used to let on to be angry. But the sound was ugly. Once he
had washed his hands in the lavatory of the Wicklow Hotel and his
father pulled the stopper up by the chain after and the dirty water
went down through the hole in the basin. And when it had all gone
down slowly the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck.
Only louder.

To remember that and
the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold and then hot. There
were two cocks that you turned and water came out: cold and hot. He
felt cold and then a little hot: and he could see the names printed
on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.

And the air in the
corridor chilled him too. It was queer and wettish. But soon the gas
would be lit and in burning it made a light noise like a little song.
Always the same: and when the fellows stopped talking in the playroom
you could hear it.

It was the hour for
sums. Father Arnall wrote a hard sum on the board and then said:

—Now then, who
will win? Go ahead, York! Go ahead, Lancaster!

Stephen tried his
best, but the sum was too hard and he felt confused. The little silk
badge with the white rose on it that was pinned on the breast of his
jacket began to flutter. He was no good at sums, but he tried his
best so that York might not lose. Father Arnall's face looked very
black, but he was not in a wax: he was laughing. Then Jack Lawton
cracked his fingers and Father Arnall looked at his copybook and
said:

Jack Lawton looked
over from his side. The little silk badge with the red rose on it
looked very rich because he had a blue sailor top on. Stephen felt
his own face red too, thinking of all the bets about who would get
first place in elements, Jack Lawton or he. Some weeks Jack Lawton
got the card for first and some weeks he got the card for first. His
white silk badge fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the next sum
and heard Father Arnall's voice. Then all his eagerness passed away
and he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be white
because it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the sum
but it did not matter. White roses and red roses: those were
beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place and
second place and third place were beautiful colours too: pink and
cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful
to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he
remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green
place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in
the world you could.

The bell rang and
then the classes began to file out of the rooms and along the
corridors towards the refectory. He sat looking at the two prints of
butter on his plate but could not eat the damp bread. The tablecloth
was damp and limp. But he drank off the hot weak tea which the clumsy
scullion, girt with a white apron, poured into his cup. He wondered
whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all white things
were cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurin drank cocoa that their
people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea;
that it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fellows
said.

All the boys seemed
to him very strange. They had all fathers and mothers and different
clothes and voices. He longed to be at home and lay his head on his
mother's lap. But he could not: and so he longed for the play and
study and prayers to be over and to be in bed.

But he was not sick
there. He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick
in that place. Fleming was very decent to ask him. He wanted to cry.
He leaned his elbows on the table and shut and opened the flaps of
his ears. Then he heard the noise of the refectory every time he
opened the flaps of his ears. It made a roar like a train at night.
And when he closed the flaps the roar was shut off like a train going
into a tunnel. That night at Dalkey the train had roared like that
and then, when it went into the tunnel, the roar stopped. He closed
his eyes and the train went on, roaring and then stopping; roaring
again, stopping. It was nice to hear it roar and stop and then roar
out of the tunnel again and then stop.

Then the higher line
fellows began to come down along the matting in the middle of the
refectory, Paddy Rath and Jimmy Magee and the Spaniard who was
allowed to smoke cigars and the little Portuguese who wore the woolly
cap. And then the lower line tables and the tables of the third line.
And every single fellow had a different way of walking.

He sat in a corner
of the playroom pretending to watch a game of dominoes and once or
twice he was able to hear for an instant the little song of the gas.
The prefect was at the door with some boys and Simon Moonan was
knotting his false sleeves. He was telling them something about
Tullabeg.

Then he went away
from the door and Wells came over to Stephen and said:

—Tell us,
Dedalus, do you kiss your mother before you go to bed?

Stephen answered:

—I do.

Wells turned to the
other fellows and said:

—O, I say,
here's a fellow says he kisses his mother every night before he goes
to bed.

The other fellows
stopped their game and turned round, laughing. Stephen blushed under
their eyes and said:

—I do not.

Wells said:

—O, I say,
here's a fellow says he doesn't kiss his mother before he goes to
bed.

They all laughed
again. Stephen tried to laugh with them. He felt his whole body hot
and confused in a moment. What was the right answer to the question?
He had given two and still Wells laughed. But Wells must know the
right answer for he was in third of grammar. He tried to think of
Wells's mother but he did not dare to raise his eyes to Wells's face.
He did not like Wells's face. It was Wells who had shouldered him
into the square ditch the day before because he would not swop his
little snuff box for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror
of forty. It was a mean thing to do; all the fellows said it was. And
how cold and slimy the water had been! And a fellow had once seen a
big rat jump plop into the scum.

The cold slime of
the ditch covered his whole body; and, when the bell rang for study
and the lines filed out of the playrooms, he felt the cold air of the
corridor and staircase inside his clothes. He still tried to think
what was the right answer. Was it right to kiss his mother or wrong
to kiss his mother? What did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up
like that to say good night and then his mother put her face down.
That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips were
soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little noise:
kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces?

Sitting in the study
hall he opened the lid of his desk and changed the number pasted up
inside from seventy-seven to seventy-six. But the Christmas vacation
was very far away: but one time it would come because the earth moved
round always.

There was a picture
of the earth on the first page of his geography: a big ball in the
middle of clouds. Fleming had a box of crayons and one night during
free study he had coloured the earth green and the clouds maroon.
That was like the two brushes in Dante's press, the brush with the
green velvet back for Parnell and the brush with the maroon velvet
back for Michael Davitt. But he had not told Fleming to colour them
those colours. Fleming had done it himself.

He opened the
geography to study the lesson; but he could not learn the names of
places in America. Still they were all different places that had
different names. They were all in different countries and the
countries were in continents and the continents were in the world and
the world was in the universe.

He turned to the
flyleaf of the geography and read what he had written there: himself,
his name and where he was.

Stephen Dedalus

Class of Elements

Clongowes Wood
College

Sallins

County Kildare

Ireland

Europe

The World

The Universe

That was in his
writing: and Fleming one night for a cod had written on the opposite
page:

Stephen Dedalus is
my name,

Ireland is my
nation.

Clongowes is my
dwellingplace

And heaven my
expectation.

He read the verses
backwards but then they were not poetry. Then he read the flyleaf
from the bottom to the top till he came to his own name. That was he:
and he read down the page again. What was after the universe?

Nothing. But was
there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the
nothing place began?

It could not be a
wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything.
It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God
could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but
he could only think of God. God was God's name just as his name was
Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that was God's name too; and
when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then God knew at once that it
was a French person that was praying. But, though there were
different names for God in all the different languages in the world
and God understood what all the people who prayed said in their
different languages, still God remained always the same God and God's
real name was God.

It made him very
tired to think that way. It made him feel his head very big. He
turned over the flyleaf and looked wearily at the green round earth
in the middle of the maroon clouds. He wondered which was right, to
be for the green or for the maroon, because Dante had ripped the
green velvet back off the brush that was for Parnell one day with her
scissors and had told him that Parnell was a bad man. He wondered if
they were arguing at home about that. That was called politics. There
were two sides in it: Dante was on one side and his father and Mr
Casey were on the other side but his mother and uncle Charles were on
no side. Every day there was something in the paper about it.

It pained him that
he did not know well what politics meant and that he did not know
where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When would he be
like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big voices and big
boots and they studied trigonometry. That was very far away. First
came the vacation and then the next term and then vacation again and
then again another term and then again the vacation. It was like a
train going in and out of tunnels and that was like the noise of the
boys eating in the refectory when you opened and closed the flaps of
the ears. Term, vacation; tunnel, out; noise, stop. How far away it
was! It was better to go to bed to sleep. Only prayers in the chapel
and then bed. He shivered and yawned. It would be lovely in bed after
the sheets got a bit hot. First they were so cold to get into. He
shivered to think how cold they were first. But then they got hot and
then he could sleep. It was lovely to be tired. He yawned again.
Night prayers and then bed: he shivered and wanted to yawn. It would
be lovely in a few minutes. He felt a warm glow creeping up from the
cold shivering sheets, warmer and warmer till he felt warm all over,
ever so warm and yet he shivered a little and still wanted to yawn.

The bell rang for
night prayers and he filed out of the study hall after the others and
down the staircase and along the corridors to the chapel. The
corridors were darkly lit and the chapel was darkly lit. Soon all
would be dark and sleeping. There was cold night air in the chapel
and the marbles were the colour the sea was at night. The sea was
cold day and night: but it was colder at night. It was cold and dark
under the seawall beside his father's house. But the kettle would be
on the hob to make punch.

The prefect of the
chapel prayed above his head and his memory knew the responses:

O Lord open our lips

And our mouths
shall announce Thy praise.

Incline unto our
aid, O God!

O Lord make haste
to help us!

There was a cold
night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy smell. It was not like
the smell of the old peasants who knelt at the back of the chapel at
Sunday mass. That was a smell of air and rain and turf and corduroy.
But they were very holy peasants. They breathed behind him on his
neck and sighed as they prayed. They lived in Clane, a fellow said:
there were little cottages there and he had seen a woman standing at
the half-door of a cottage with a child in her arms as the cars had
come past from Sallins. It would be lovely to sleep for one night in
that cottage before the fire of smoking turf, in the dark lit by the
fire, in the warm dark, breathing the smell of the peasants, air and
rain and turf and corduroy. But O, the road there between the trees
was dark! You would be lost in the dark. It made him afraid to think
of how it was.

He heard the voice
of the prefect of the chapel saying the last prayers. He prayed it
too against the dark outside under the trees.

VISIT, WE BESEECH
THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE

AWAY FROM IT ALL
THE SNARES OF THE ENEMY. MAY THY HOLY

ANGELS DWELL HEREIN
TO PRESERVE US IN PEACE AND MAY THY

BLESSINGS BE ALWAYS
UPON US THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD.

AMEN.

His fingers trembled
as he undressed himself in the dormitory. He told his fingers to
hurry up. He had to undress and then kneel and say his own prayers
and be in bed before the gas was lowered so that he might not go to
hell when he died. He rolled his stockings off and put on his
nightshirt quickly and knelt trembling at his bedside and repeated
his prayers quickly, fearing that the gas would go down. He felt his
shoulders shaking as he murmured:

God bless my father
and my mother and spare them to me!

God bless my little
brothers and sisters and spare them to me!

God bless Dante and
Uncle Charles and spare them to me!

He blessed himself
and climbed quickly into bed and, tucking the end of the nightshirt
under his feet, curled himself together under the cold white sheets,
shaking and trembling. But he would not go to hell when he died; and
the shaking would stop. A voice bade the boys in the dormitory good
night. He peered out for an instant over the coverlet and saw the
yellow curtains round and before his bed that shut him off on all
sides. The light was lowered quietly.

The prefect's shoes
went away. Where? Down the staircase and along the corridors or to
his room at the end? He saw the dark. Was it true about the black dog
that walked there at night with eyes as big as carriage-lamps? They
said it was the ghost of a murderer. A long shiver of fear flowed
over his body. He saw the dark entrance hall of the castle. Old
servants in old dress were in the ironing-room above the staircase.
It was long ago. The old servants were quiet. There was a fire there,
but the hall was still dark. A figure came up the staircase from the
hall. He wore the white cloak of a marshal; his face was pale and
strange; he held his hand pressed to his side. He looked out of
strange eyes at the old servants. They looked at him and saw their
master's face and cloak and knew that he had received his
death-wound. But only the dark was where they looked: only dark
silent air. Their master had received his death-wound on the
battlefield of Prague far away over the sea. He was standing on the
field; his hand was pressed to his side; his face was pale and
strange and he wore the white cloak of a marshal.

O how cold and
strange it was to think of that! All the dark was cold and strange.
There were pale strange faces there, great eyes like carriage-lamps.
They were the ghosts of murderers, the figures of marshals who had
received their death-wound on battlefields far away over the sea.
What did they wish to say that their faces were so strange?

VISIT, WE BESEECH
THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE AWAY FROM IT ALL...

Going home for the
holidays! That would be lovely: the fellows had told him. Getting up
on the cars in the early wintry morning outside the door of the
castle. The cars were rolling on the gravel. Cheers for the rector!

Hurray! Hurray!
Hurray!

The cars drove past
the chapel and all caps were raised. They drove merrily along the
country roads. The drivers pointed with their whips to Bodenstown.
The fellows cheered. They passed the farmhouse of the Jolly Farmer.
Cheer after cheer after cheer. Through Clane they drove, cheering and
cheered. The peasant women stood at the half-doors, the men stood
here and there. The lovely smell there was in the wintry air: the
smell of Clane: rain and wintry air and turf smouldering and
corduroy.

The train was full
of fellows: a long long chocolate train with cream facings. The
guards went to and fro opening, closing, locking, unlocking the
doors. They were men in dark blue and silver; they had silvery
whistles and their keys made a quick music: click, click: click,
click.

And the train raced
on over the flat lands and past the Hill of Allen. The telegraph
poles were passing, passing. The train went on and on. It knew. There
were lanterns in the hall of his father's house and ropes of green
branches. There were holly and ivy round the pierglass and holly and
ivy, green and red, twined round the chandeliers. There were red
holly and green ivy round the old portraits on the walls. Holly and
ivy for him and for Christmas.

Lovely...

All the people.
Welcome home, Stephen! Noises of welcome. His mother kissed him. Was
that right? His father was a marshal now: higher than a magistrate.
Welcome home, Stephen!

Noises...

There was a noise of
curtain-rings running back along the rods, of water being splashed in
the basins. There was a noise of rising and dressing and washing in
the dormitory: a noise of clapping of hands as the prefect went up
and down telling the fellows to look sharp. A pale sunlight showed
the yellow curtains drawn back, the tossed beds. His bed was very hot
and his face and body were very hot.

He got up and sat on
the side of his bed. He was weak. He tried to pull on his stocking.
It had a horrid rough feel. The sunlight was queer and cold.

Fleming said:

—Are you not
well?

He did not know; and
Fleming said:

—Get back into
bed. I'll tell McGlade you're not well.

—He's sick.

—Who is?

—Tell McGlade.

—Get back into
bed.

—Is he sick?

A fellow held his
arms while he loosened the stocking clinging to his foot and climbed
back into the hot bed.

He crouched down
between the sheets, glad of their tepid glow. He heard the fellows
talk among themselves about him as they dressed for mass. It was a
mean thing to do, to shoulder him into the square ditch, they were
saying.

Then their voices
ceased; they had gone. A voice at his bed said:

—Dedalus,
don't spy on us, sure you won't?

Wells's face was
there. He looked at it and saw that Wells was afraid.

—I didn't mean
to. Sure you won't?

His father had told
him, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. He shook his head
and answered no and felt glad.

Wells said:

—I didn't mean
to, honour bright. It was only for cod. I'm sorry.

The face and the
voice went away. Sorry because he was afraid. Afraid that it was some
disease. Canker was a disease of plants and cancer one of animals: or
another different. That was a long time ago then out on the
playgrounds in the evening light, creeping from point to point on the
fringe of his line, a heavy bird flying low through the grey light.
Leicester Abbey lit up. Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him
themselves.

It was not Wells's
face, it was the prefect's. He was not foxing. No, no: he was sick
really. He was not foxing. And he felt the prefect's hand on his
forehead; and he felt his forehead warm and damp against the
prefect's cold damp hand. That was the way a rat felt, slimy and damp
and cold. Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy coats,
little little feet tucked up to jump, black slimy eyes to look out
of. They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could
not understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on their
sides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things.

The prefect was
there again and it was his voice that was saying that he was to get
up, that Father Minister had said he was to get up and dress and go
to the infirmary. And while he was dressing himself as quickly as he
could the prefect said:

—We must pack
off to Brother Michael because we have the collywobbles!

He was very decent
to say that. That was all to make him laugh. But he could not laugh
because his cheeks and lips were all shivery: and then the prefect
had to laugh by himself.

The prefect cried:

—Quick march!
Hayfoot! Strawfoot!

They went together
down the staircase and along the corridor and past the bath. As he
passed the door he remembered with a vague fear the warm
turf-coloured bogwater, the warm moist air, the noise of plunges, the
smell of the towels, like medicine.

Brother Michael was
standing at the door of the infirmary and from the door of the dark
cabinet on his right came a smell like medicine. That came from the
bottles on the shelves. The prefect spoke to Brother Michael and
Brother Michael answered and called the prefect sir. He had reddish
hair mixed with grey and a queer look. It was queer that he would
always be a brother. It was queer too that you could not call him sir
because he was a brother and had a different kind of look. Was he not
holy enough or why could he not catch up on the others?

There were two beds
in the room and in one bed there was a fellow: and when they went in
he called out:

—Hello! It's
young Dedalus! What's up?

—The sky is
up, Brother Michael said.

He was a fellow out
of the third of grammar and, while Stephen was undressing, he asked
Brother Michael to bring him a round of buttered toast.

—Ah, do! he
said.

—Butter you
up! said Brother Michael. You'll get your walking papers in the
morning when the doctor comes.

—Will I? the
fellow said. I'm not well yet.

Brother Michael
repeated:

—You'll get
your walking papers. I tell you.

He bent down to rake
the fire. He had a long back like the long back of a tramhorse. He
shook the poker gravely and nodded his head at the fellow out of
third of grammar.

Then Brother Michael
went away and after a while the fellow out of third of grammar turned
in towards the wall and fell asleep.

That was the
infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written home to tell his mother
and father? But it would be quicker for one of the priests to go
himself to tell them. Or he would write a letter for the priest to
bring.

Dear Mother,

I am sick. I want
to go home. Please come and take me home.

I am in the
infirmary.

Your fond son,

Stephen

How far away they
were! There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he
would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day. He might die
before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in the chapel
like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had died.
All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with sad
faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him. The
rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would be
tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And they
would carry the coffin out of the chapel slowly and he would be
buried in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue
of limes. And Wells would be sorry then for what he had done. And the
bell would toll slowly.

He could hear the
tolling. He said over to himself the song that Brigid had taught him.

Dingdong! The castle
bell!

Farewell, my
mother!

Bury me in the old
churchyard

Beside my eldest
brother.

My coffin shall be
black,

Six angels at my
back,

Two to sing and two
to pray

And two to carry my
soul away.

How beautiful and
sad that was! How beautiful the words were where they said BURY ME IN
THE OLD CHURCHYARD! A tremor passed over his body. How sad and how
beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the
words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell!
Farewell! O farewell!

The cold sunlight
was weaker and Brother Michael was standing at his bedside with a
bowl of beef-tea. He was glad for his mouth was hot and dry. He could
hear them playing in the playgrounds. And the day was going on in the
college just as if he were there.

Then Brother Michael
was going away and the fellow out of the third of grammar told him to
be sure and come back and tell him all the news in the paper. He told
Stephen that his name was Athy and that his father kept a lot of
racehorses that were spiffing jumpers and that his father would give
a good tip to Brother Michael any time he wanted it because Brother
Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the paper
they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind of news in
the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports, and politics.

—Now it is all
about politics in the papers, he said. Do your people talk about that
too?

—Yes, Stephen
said.

—Mine too, he
said.

Then he thought for
a moment and said:

—You have a
queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is
the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

Then he asked:

—Are you good
at riddles?

Stephen answered:

—Not very
good.

Then he said:

—Can you
answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a
fellow's breeches?

Stephen thought what
could be the answer and then said:

—I give it up.

—Because there
is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in
the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh.

—Oh, I see,
Stephen said.

—That's an old
riddle, he said.

After a moment he
said:

—I say!

—What? asked
Stephen.

—You know, he
said, you can ask that riddle another way.

—Can you? said
Stephen.

—The same
riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it?

—No, said
Stephen.

—Can you not
think of the other way? he said.

He looked at Stephen
over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back on the pillow and
said:

—There is
another way but I won't tell you what it is.

Why did he not tell
it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a magistrate too
like Saurin's father and Nasty Roche's father. He thought of his own
father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he
always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt
sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys'
fathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But his father
had told him that he would be no stranger there because his
granduncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty
years before. You could know the people of that time by their old
dress. It seemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that was
the time when the fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats with brass
buttons and yellow waistcoats and caps of rabbitskin and drank beer
like grown-up people and kept greyhounds of their own to course the
hares with.

He looked at the
window and saw that the daylight had grown weaker. There would be
cloudy grey light over the playgrounds. There was no noise on the
playgrounds. The class must be doing the themes or perhaps Father
Arnall was reading out of the book.

It was queer that
they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother Michael would
bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking stuff to drink
when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now than before.
It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a book then.
There was a book in the library about Holland. There were lovely
foreign names in it and pictures of strange looking cities and ships.
It made you feel so happy.

How pale the light
was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose and fell on the
wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he heard voices.
They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the waves were
talking among themselves as they rose and fell.

He saw the sea of
waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under the moonless
night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the ship was
entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the waters'
edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall man
stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by the
light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of Brother
Michael.

He saw him lift his
hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud voice of sorrow
over the waters:

—He is dead.
We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow went up from
the people.

—Parnell!
Parnell! He is dead!

They fell upon their
knees, moaning in sorrow.

And he saw Dante in
a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet mantle hanging from her
shoulders walking proudly and silently past the people who knelt by
the water's edge.

A great fire, banked
high and red, flamed in the grate and under the ivy-twined branches
of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread. They had come home
a little late and still dinner was not ready: but it would be ready
in a jiffy his mother had said. They were waiting for the door to
open and for the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered
with their heavy metal covers.

All were waiting:
uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the window, Dante
and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy-chairs at either side of the
hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet resting on
the toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the pierglass above
the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache ends and then, parting his
coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and still from
time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax out one of
his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side and,
smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers. And Stephen
smiled too for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey had a
purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery
noise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him. And when he had
tried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was
hidden there he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened
out: and Mr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped
fingers making a birthday present for Queen Victoria. Mr Casey tapped
the gland of his neck and smiled at Stephen with sleepy eyes: and Mr
Dedalus said to him:

—Yes. Well
now, that's all right. O, we had a good walk, hadn't we, John? Yes...
I wonder if there's any likelihood of dinner this evening. Yes... O,
well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the Head today. Ay,
bedad.

He turned to Dante
and said:

—You didn't
stir out at all, Mrs Riordan?

Dante frowned and
said shortly:

—No.

Mr Dedalus dropped
his coat-tails and went over to the sideboard. He brought forth a
great stone jar of whisky from the locker and filled the decanter
slowly, bending now and then to see how much he had poured in. Then
replacing the jar in the locker he poured a little of the whisky into
two glasses, added a little water and came back with them to the
fireplace.

—A thimbleful,
John, he said, just to whet your appetite.

Mr Casey took the
glass, drank, and placed it near him on the mantelpiece. Then he
said:

—Well, I can't
help thinking of our friend Christopher manufacturing...

He broke into a fit
of laughter and coughing and added:

—...manufacturing
that champagne for those fellows.

Mr Dedalus laughed
loudly.

—Is it
Christy? he said. There's more cunning in one of those warts on his
bald head than in a pack of jack foxes.

He inclined his
head, closed his eyes, and, licking his lips profusely, began to
speak with the voice of the hotel keeper.

—And he has
such a soft mouth when he's speaking to you, don't you know. He's
very moist and watery about the dewlaps, God bless him.

Mr Casey was still
struggling through his fit of coughing and laughter. Stephen, seeing
and hearing the hotel keeper through his father's face and voice,
laughed.

Mr Dedalus put up
his eyeglass and, staring down at him, said quietly and kindly:

—What are you
laughing at, you little puppy, you?

The servants entered
and placed the dishes on the table. Mrs Dedalus followed and the
places were arranged.

—Sit over, she
said.

Mr Dedalus went to
the end of the table and said:

—Now, Mrs
Riordan, sit over. John, sit you down, my hearty.

He looked round to
where uncle Charles sat and said:

—Now then,
sir, there's a bird here waiting for you.

When all had taken
their seats he laid his hand on the cover and then said quickly,
withdrawing it:

—Now, Stephen.

Stephen stood up in
his place to say the grace before meals:

Bless us, O Lord,
and these Thy gifts which through Thy bounty we are about to receive
through Christ our Lord. Amen.

All blessed
themselves and Mr Dedalus with a sigh of pleasure lifted from the
dish the heavy cover pearled around the edge with glistening drops.

Stephen looked at
the plump turkey which had lain, trussed and skewered, on the kitchen
table. He knew that his father had paid a guinea for it in Dunn's of
D'Olier Street and that the man had prodded it often at the
breastbone to show how good it was: and he remembered the man's voice
when he had said:

—Take that
one, sir. That's the real Ally Daly.

Why did Mr Barrett
in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? But Clongowes was far away:
and the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from the
plates and dishes and the great fire was banked high and red in the
grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy and when
dinner was ended the big plum pudding would be carried in, studded
with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running
around it and a little green flag flying from the top.

It was his first
Christmas dinner and he thought of his little brothers and sisters
who were waiting in the nursery, as he had often waited, till the
pudding came. The deep low collar and the Eton jacket made him feel
queer and oldish: and that morning when his mother had brought him
down to the parlour, dressed for mass, his father had cried. That was
because he was thinking of his own father. And uncle Charles had said
so too.

Mr Dedalus covered
the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said:

—Poor old
Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery.

—Simon, said
Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce.

Mr Dedalus seized
the sauceboat.

—Haven't I? he
cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered her plate with
her hands and said:

—No, thanks.

Mr Dedalus turned to
uncle Charles.

—How are you
off, sir?

—Right as the
mail, Simon.

—You, John?

—I'm all
right. Go on yourself.

—Mary? Here,
Stephen, here's something to make your hair curl.

He poured sauce
freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on the table. Then
he asked uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles could not speak
because his mouth was full; but he nodded that it was.

—That was a
good answer our friend made to the canon. What? said Mr Dedalus.

—I didn't
think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.

—I'LL PAY YOUR
DUES, FATHER, WHEN YOU CEASE TURNING THE HOUSE OF GOD INTO A
POLLING-BOOTH.

—A nice
answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to give to
his priest.

—They have
only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they took a
fool's advice they would confine their attention to religion.

—It is
religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the
people.

—We go to the
house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to our Maker and
not to hear election addresses.

—It is
religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct their
flocks.

—And preach
politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.

—Certainly,
said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest would not
be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is
wrong.

Mrs Dedalus laid
down her knife and fork, saying:

—For pity sake
and for pity sake let us have no political discussion on this day of
all days in the year.

—Mrs Riordan,
I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop now.

Dante turned on her
and said:

—And am I to
sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being flouted?

—Nobody is
saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as they don't
meddle in politics.

—The bishops
and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they must be
obeyed.

—Let them
leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may leave their
church alone.

—You hear?
said Dante, turning to Mrs Dedalus.

—Mr Casey!
Simon! said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now.

—Too bad! Too
bad! said uncle Charles.

—What? cried
Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bidding of the English
people?

—He was no
longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a public sinner.

—We are all
sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly.

—WOE BE TO THE
MAN BY WHOM THE SCANDAL COMETH! said Mrs Riordan. IT WOULD BE BETTER
FOR HIM THAT A MILLSTONE WERE TIED ABOUT HIS NECK AND THAT HE WERE
CAST INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA RATHER THAN THAT HE SHOULD SCANDALIZE
ONE OF THESE, MY LEAST LITTLE ONES. That is the language of the Holy
Ghost.

—And very bad
language if you ask me, said Mr Dedalus coolly.

—Simon! Simon!
said uncle Charles. The boy.

—Yes, yes,
said Mr Dedalus. I meant about the... I was thinking about the bad
language of the railway porter. Well now, that's all right. Here,
Stephen, show me your plate, old chap. Eat away now. Here.

He heaped up the
food on Stephen's plate and served uncle Charles and Mr Casey to
large pieces of turkey and splashes of sauce. Mrs Dedalus was eating
little and Dante sat with her hands in her lap. She was red in the
face. Mr Dedalus rooted with the carvers at the end of the dish and
said:

—There's a
tasty bit here we call the pope's nose. If any lady or gentleman...

He held a piece of
fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody spoke. He put it on
his own plate, saying:

—Well, you
can't say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it myself
because I'm not well in my health lately.

He winked at Stephen
and, replacing the dish-cover, began to eat again.

There was a silence
while he ate. Then he said:

—Well now, the
day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of strangers down too.

Nobody spoke. He
said again:

—I think there
were more strangers down than last Christmas.

He looked round at
the others whose faces were bent towards their plates and, receiving
no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly:

—Well, my
Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow.

—There could
be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where there is no
respect for the pastors of the church.

Mr Dedalus threw his
knife and fork noisily on his plate.

—Respect! he
said. Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of guts up in
Armagh? Respect!

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